


Sunday

by ImpishTubist



Series: Peace in the Storm [2]
Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter morning in West Virginia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/gifts).



> Happy birthday, dear Canon!

The best thing about the West Virginia winter, Mark thought, was opening his eyes on a Sunday morning to snow-tipped pine trees that looked as though they had been transported from the front of a postcard to Oliver’s yard.

 

No, scratch that. The absolute _best_ part about winter mornings in this cozy cabin was when he woke in the predawn hours next to Oliver’s sleep-warm form, powerful arms encircling his waist and Oliver’s forehead resting between his shoulder blades, before spiraling back down into contented sleep. The second-best thing - which trailed far behind sleeping in Oliver’s arms, of course - was having the vast bed to himself after Oliver got up for the day.

 

The problem was that nowadays, if he lingered in bed too long, Oliver would eventually be replaced by something much hairier - and smellier.

 

“Ugh,” Mark muttered, pushing uselessly at the creature curled up against him. He got a mouthful of fur for his efforts. “Damn it, Absolon, _come on_.”

 

Because of course it was Absolon, who had yet to get used to Mark’s presence in the cabin again. Oliver had been lax in Mark’s absence and allowed the dogs in the bedroom with him. Babel had no issue sleeping on her dog bed in the corner, but Absolon had claimed the spot on the bed next to his master. And he was having a hell of a hard time letting go of it now that Mark was back home.

 

The dog let out a huff but didn’t budge. Mark sighed. He wasn’t about to get any more sleep, he realized in resignation, and threw back the covers.

 

It wasn’t all that bad, he reasoned as cool air assaulted him. Oliver was out of bed, after all, so out of bed was a pretty good place to be.

 

The cold floorboards stung his soles, and he crossed the room on the balls of his feet to the closet. He dug around until he found a sweatshirt and pulled it on over his t-shirt. It was Oliver’s, which meant that it hung past his ass and had sleeves that covered his hands. Didn’t really matter, Mark thought as he rolled up the sleeves to his wrists. It was warm, and there was no one here to see how ridiculous he looked wearing a Naval Academy sweatshirt over potato-patterned pajama bottoms (the first item in what he was sure would be a long line of atrocious merchandise capitalizing on his ordeal.)

 

He followed the scent of coffee, which for him came before food, water, and shelter. He padded into the kitchen, scrubbing at his eyes, and realized a beat too late that he should have been paying more attention to his surroundings. Namely, to the fact that there had been quiet voices coming from this room.

 

“ _There_ he is,” his mother crooned from the laptop Oliver had set on the counter so he could chat with her while he made breakfast. “Rolling out of bed at ten in the morning, just like when he was a teenager.”

 

Mark leveled a glare at Oliver and croaked, “Coffee.”

 

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” his mother said affectionately. “Oh, who got you those pajama bottoms, dear? They’re _hysterical_. Was it Chris?”

 

Oliver had already poured him a mug of coffee, which he passed to Mark with a sympathetic smile.

 

“Morning,” he greeted softly, kissing the corner of Mark’s mouth. Mark grunted and, clutching his mug with both hands, took a long swallow of the hot liquid. It burned like hell, but he didn’t care. It was _coffee_.

 

“What the hell are you two chatting about so early in the morning?” he muttered, sitting at the table.  

 

“Language,” his mother scolded, while Oliver gave him one of those deeply affectionate looks, like he thought Mark had hung the Moon or something. “Oliver’s been telling me about the snowstorm.”

 

“And we’ve been talking about plans for your father’s birthday,” Oliver said gently. Mark was instantly abashed. Right. That was coming up, wasn’t it?

 

Truth be told, he hadn’t gotten a firm handle on time yet. It was better now than when he’d been on _Hermes_ , because at least now he had seasons to mark the passage of time, but days still slipped away from him. Part of it was the issue of not having any kind of routine. A month since their arrival back on Earth, and they were all still in what Mark privately thought of as living in limbo - a couple of months to get used to being with their families and around other people again before the real media storm descended upon them.

 

Not that it had been entirely peaceful. The homecoming had been chaos personified. Even once Mark had managed to escape to Oliver’s West Virginia cabin, the press hounded them. Camping out in the woods, waiting for them to make an appearance. Settling outside the Watneys’ apartment in Chicago, hoping to get a statement from the couple. It was hell, sometimes.

 

Thank whatever deity might exist for this unexpected snowstorm, then. Twelve inches overnight, with another eight expected to fall by the afternoon. No one was coming anywhere near them, at least for today.

 

Oliver set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. Mark normally didn’t like eggs - the texture was all wrong - but somehow Oliver made them tolerable. He’d embarked on a one-man mission to get Mark to put on some of the weight he’d lost on Mars, and Mark had indulged him as best he could. His stomach still didn’t agree with real food all of the time, but he tried to make Oliver happy as often as was possible. He picked up his fork and stabbed at the eggs, and Oliver smiled at him before turning back to the laptop.

 

His mother and Oliver chatted for perhaps fifteen minutes longer, Oliver standing at the counter and munching on toast while he cleaned up from his cooking spree. He’d been in his twenties when his own parents had passed - hardly a child, but the loss had still been devastating. Mark’s parents, once they got over the initial shock of his fifteen-year-long secret, had taken to Oliver like ducks to water, and Mark could see how much it meant to him to have this new family in his life. For so many years, it had just been Oliver and his dogs - and Mark, when he was around.

 

“We’ll see you next week,” Oliver was saying when Mark next tuned in. He turned the laptop so Mark could see the screen. Mark waved obediently, giving his mother a smile. “Goodbye, now.”

 

“Bye, dears. We can’t wait to see you!”

 

Oliver shut down the program and closed the lid of the laptop with a soft snap.

 

“How long have you been up?” Mark shoveled the last of the eggs into his mouth, chewed, swallowed.

 

“Since six.” Oliver came over to him and placed his hands on the back of Mark’s chair. Bracing one of the back legs against his foot, he tipped it back just far enough to place an upside-down kiss on Mark’s mouth. “Hello.”

 

“Mm.” Mark kissed him again, snaking a hand around the back of his neck. He sneaked a whine into his voice, because sometimes that worked with Oliver. “You _left_ me.”

 

“Did Absolon take my spot again?” Oliver sounded amused and not the least bit remorseful. “If you got up when I did, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“If I got up when you did, I would be certifiably _insane_.” Mark released Oliver. The chair dropped back down on all four legs.

 

“As if that was ever in doubt.”

 

“Ho, the man thinks he’s funny,” Mark muttered, good mood swiftly evaporating. Oliver gave him a wet, bristly kiss on the cheek.

 

“You’re just as sane as the rest of us, babe,” he said, straightening. “Come on. Anyone who voluntarily decided to do what we did has to be at least a little cracked in the head.”

 

“I suppose,” Mark allowed grudgingly, though his defenses eased a bit. “Where are you going?”

 

“Shower.” Oliver paused in the doorway. “Well?”

 

Mark looked at him. “Well, what?”

 

“I’m going to shower,” Oliver said, more slowly this time. “And…”

 

Mark stared at him, then was out of his seat like a shot.

 

“And I’m so totally joining you,” he said as he breezed past Oliver on the way to the bathroom, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. It was still fucking cold and he so did not care about that right now.

 

“Attaboy,” Oliver said in a low voice, slapping Mark’s ass as he passed. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

 

“Are you coming or not?”

 

“Well, not _yet_ …”

 

“Oliver!”

 


End file.
